The Fall: The Rift Book I

by Robert J. Duperre

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t been in this part of the hospital in a long time. So it could be…”

  “Radiology and Imaging,” Clyde interjected. Horace breathed a sigh of relief at the save.

  Major Franks frowned. The door buckled again and his feet slipped. He shuffled, regained his footing, and said, “Get out of here, then. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Horace nodded in compliance. He bent over and offered Clyde his hand.

  “Can you stand?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Good.”

  Horace helped his wounded new friend to his feet. He draped Clyde’s arm around his neck, opened the door, and together they stumbled into the adjacent room. The young resident’s weight, however slight he appeared, wore on Horace’s back and shoulders.

  “I can’t go on for too long like this,” he muttered.

  The riot of rupturing wood and plaster froze them in their tracks. They turned as one and peered through the observation window. Horace’s jaw dropped. Clyde’s hand reached out and turned the deadbolt on the door.

  A pack of ravenous, disfigured creatures poured into the room they had just vacated. Some wore tattered hospital scrubs while others were decked in military garb, weapons still held in their clawed hands. The few remaining soldiers fell quickly, being overrun by the horde’s forward momentum. Where the men fell, geysers of blood erupted into the air.

  Only Major Franks remained standing. He positioned himself in front of the window, weapon drawn, firing randomly in every direction. Horace could hear his shouts. “Fuck you!” Franks screamed. “And you! You fuckers! Just fuck off!”

  A deafening bang came next and the observation window exploded. Horace ducked, pulling Clyde down with him to avoid the spraying glass. Then there was a moment of silence. They peeked over the lip one last time.

  The headless body of Major Franks stood, teetering from side to side. The pistol was still in his hand and his finger still squeezed the trigger while pressurized blood ejected from the stump of his neck. Two sneering creatures tackled his twitching remains, ripping his corpse to shreds. Horace couldn’t help but think of Kelly, and he at last understood the why aspect of her final, desperate act. For the millionth time in the past few weeks, his stomach lurched.

  “Holy shit,” Clyde whispered.

  Without saying a word Horace forced the young man to turn. They headed in the opposite direction, trying to stay low, and left through the operating room’s open door. The sounds of tearing flesh were followed by nauseating slurps, and finally by a chorus of animalistic yowls. He gestured for Clyde to proceed as quietly as possible, hoping the creatures in the other room would be too busy with their feast to notice them.

  When they entered the corridor they stopped and Horace looked around. He didn’t know which way to go.

  “I’m sorry, son,” he said. Defeat crept into his voice. “I can’t think right now.”

  Clyde winked at him. Horace could swear he saw a twinkle in the youngster’s eye.

  “Don’t worry, grandpa,” Clyde said. “I might be a first-year resident, but I spent more than a few semesters here, too. I know this place like the back of my hand.” He pointed down the hall with the hand draped around Horace’s shoulder. “There’s a service access stairwell down that way. We can get out through there. As long as I can stay upright, I think we’ll be fine.”

  Horace allowed Clyde to guide him. Sure enough, as they rounded the next corner, a door marked ‘Service Access Only’ appeared. He pulled the door open. The choir of demons grew louder from around the bend. It would only be a matter of time before they came after them, as well. They stepped into the stairwell. Horace closed the door and locked it.

  The odd pair descended the steps in near blackness like a couple of drunks. Below them would be ground level. Were they to make it that far they could run for it, if either of them could gather enough strength to move in a way faster than a stagger. With the idea of reaching the open air in mind, one thought echoed through Horace’s brain. It sung like an ill-omened refrain he didn’t want to think about, two simple words that said everything:

  What then?

  CHAPTER 14

  FRIENDS & NEIGHBORS

  IT LOOKED LIKE a tornado had touched down. Trash and other debris littered the streets of the once-quiet town, combining with the sunless, cloud-filled afternoon to create an aura of gray despair.

  On the corner of Main Street there was a crater in the sidewalk the size of a small car. The destruction around him seemed strange, almost haphazard, with chunks blown out of buildings fifteen feet above him, as if the soldiers were firing at random. Josh maneuvered through the area with caution, the fall air attacking him with its consistent, frigid gusts. His parka did little to protect him from the cold. He shivered, stuffed his hands in the deep front pocket, and rubbed them together to keep warm. He tried to tell himself that he would be fine if he could only forget about his discomfort.

  The wind that froze his bones also carried with it thick, black smoke. It drifted from the carcasses of burned-out buildings and lingered in the air. It billowed from the door of the tobacconist in front of which his Bonneville still lay, overturned and useless. He stopped and looked around. Scenes very similar to these had played out on every street he had passed during his half-mile hike. His brain asked a question he didn’t really want a solution to.

  With all this devastation, where are the bodies?

  His answer came when he rounded the next bend.

  There, the fires still burned. Flames vomited from shop windows and ruined cars. Human remains covered the ground. He tried his best not to notice them as he passed, but the sheer number made it a futile effort. Instead he tried to detach himself and proceeded to weave through a minefield of severed arms, limbless torsos, and unrecognizable, bloody chunks of ruin. The scent of burning flesh and rubber forced its way up his nose and down his throat. He had to pull the parka’s collar up over his nose to keep from gagging.

  Despite the horror and discomfort, he sensed a strange calm wash over him, surging through his gut in a soothing wave. The little voice of panic whispered into his ear and told him to run away and hide, but that voice held no power over the composure he now felt. He assumed he was experiencing the same sort of courage he’d noticed earlier in his parents, a sense of valor that allowed him to remain aware when he should have been paralyzed by fear. It was an extension of his duty to protect the ones he loved. He smiled, knowing his folks would have been proud had they been there to witness it.

  The fear will come later, after I do what I have to.

  Finally his destination appeared, a beacon of salvation in the distance. It was the supermarket, and it thankfully seemed to have remained intact. He dashed across the parking lot, forgetting the need for caution, and sped by tangled masses of smoldering metal that had been working automobiles only a day ago.

  He stopped when he reached the front entrance and searched for signs of life, but there were none to be found. He glanced at the overhang and noticed the ratty twine and dirt of a bird’s nest sticking out from above the lip. There were no wings flapping and no squeaks of hungry chicks. He imagined that the prior occupants had already flown south for the winter, causing the empty nest to mirror the rest of the town: abandoned and lifeless.

  The storefront window had been smashed, and he stepped through the opening. The supermarket seemed to be in decent enough shape, although the dim light coming in from outside made it look as if darkness was slowly devouring the interior from rear to front. A few grocery bags had been dropped by the checkout stations, their contents scattered. He kept his eyes glued to the floor as he walked, careful not to step on a can and twist his ankle, and made his way past the express lanes and customer service desk. His objective—the pharmacy—came next. He stopped at the aisles in front and read the labels of the bottles stacked there. Frustration tickled the back of his throat. I don’t even know what she needs, he
thought, and then, if I do find something, is it okay if I just grab it?

  The building creaked. It was a lonely sound, like the cry of an extinct species echoing through time. He looked around and noticed that the sun had poked out of the clouds and that he was being foolish. No one would care if he took every item off of every shelf in the store, because there was no one left to care.

  He snatched a grocery basket from the stand beside the pharmacy and began to toss random boxes in. Tylenol, Advil, Vicks 44, Midol, Aleve, Motrin, and anything else he could get his hands on. He was about to turn away when he finally remembered exactly what he was supposed to be looking for. He placed the quarter-filled basket on the pharmacy counter and jumped over. It was dark back there, so he flicked on his lighter and rifled through the inventory. Penicillin, Amoxicillin, his mind sang while he scanned the labels. Finally he sifted through a tub filled with prepared orders and found what he was looking for, tucked away in crinkly paper bags. He snatched the two bottles, shook them, heard liquid gurgle, and placed them into his bin.

  With his foray into the pharmacy complete, he slid back over the counter and walked the length of the store, heading for the produce aisle. “Might as well,” he whispered. The light from outside didn’t reach that far into the building, so he picked up a newspaper, curled it into a cylinder, and lit the end.

  Guided by torchlight like a fifteenth-century brigand, he worked his way down the aisle. He flung apples, carrots, and a bundle of bananas into the basket before thinking it might be smart to grab some canned goods, as well. His feet carried him into the pitch-black end of the store.

  Just as comfort dared to sneak its way into his nerves, he was blinded by a flash of light that burned his eyes with the intensity of a supernova. His heart jumped and he fell, landing with a thud against an unseen display stand, knocking it over. The basket and newspaper torch fell from his hand. Fruit and medicine bottles bounced and rolled away from him. Feathery scraps of glowing, cindered paper floated like lightning bugs through the darkness.

  “Don’t fucking move!” a voice screamed.

  He quickly brought his hands up and held them in front of him, both to convey surrender and shield his eyes from the blinding light. The sound of footsteps could be heard, very close by. He gasped for breath as the world narrowed in on him.

  “What’s your name and why are you here?” the voice demanded.

  “I…I’m…” Josh replied. He squinted against the glare, but could only see shadows.

  After a pause, the voice said, “It’s all right. He’s not one of them.”

  The glare fell off to the side. It was the beam of a spotlight, Josh realized, and lowered his hands. He blinked in an attempt to eliminate the sunbursts obstructing his vision but only succeeded in making them more pronounced. Between the flashes, three figures emerged. They hovered five feet away, one with its hands on its hips like a drill sergeant, the other two aiming rifles at him.

  “Get up,” the shadow in the center ordered.

  On a pair of trembling knees, Josh did as he was told. He rose to his feet and took a step back, just in case he had to make a run for it. The fear waned a bit, though he still couldn’t stop panting.

  The three silhouettes turned away from him without a word and pulled open the door to the stockroom. The glow from behind it lit the shadow men’s features. The one in the center, the one who spoke, was an older man with graying hair and a thick, unyielding jaw. He wore fatigues and carried a large flashlight. Those flanking him were men from around town, who had even stopped by The Pit on occasion, but Josh couldn’t think of their names. Checkered flannels hung from their broad shoulders and ratty-looking beards concealed their faces. The automatic rifles were now slung over their shoulders.

  The man in fatigues turned to him and threw his arms up. “Are you coming?”

  Josh started to move forward, but stopped and hustled back to the upturned basket, rummaging through its spilled contents. When he found the two bottles of prescription antibiotics, he felt around the containers to make sure they hadn’t leaked during the fall and then stuffed them into his parka.

  He tentatively snuck through the open door. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t only sunlight that lit the stockroom. A row of halogen lamps had been erected and people filled the room: civilians and soldiers, men and women. The people worked quickly, loading crates into pickup trucks, which were parked outside the dock doors. In an odd way, it resembled any normal day at J&P.

  The man with the graying hair took him by the arm. “So, kid,” he said, “Do you have a name?”

  Josh’s mouth felt like he’d been sucking on a sponge for hours. “Josh,” he finally said, and shook the man’s hand.

  “General Westin Stack,” was the reply. The man then turned his attention back to his charges but didn’t stop speaking.

  “Sorry if we scared you, boy. Precautions are necessary. We needed to make sure you weren’t one of them. We’ve been clearing the area since sunrise, so I’m sure you will understand if me and the boys are a bit jumpy.”

  “Clearing the area?”

  “We were eliminating any straggling hostiles.”

  Josh frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand any of this.”

  The General turned and stared him down. His eyes burned a hole in his skull with impatience. Stack opened his mouth again, the veins in his neck tense, but another man spoke up an said, “I’ll take care of this.” The General blew air out of his nose and turned away. Josh pivoted toward the new voice.

  A breathtakingly familiar old man walked up to him wearing a wide smile on his face. “What’s up, kiddo?” he asked, and wrapped Josh in a fatherly hug.

  “Mister C?” said Josh, pressing his chin into the crook of the old man’s neck. The relief that flowed through him brought him close to crying. James Conroy didn’t say anything, simply patted Josh’s back.

  They pulled away from each other, though keeping their hands entwined. Relieved tears trickled down Josh’s cheeks. He welcomed the emotion. For the first time since the explosions hit, he felt like himself.

  “So, how are you?” asked James.

  Josh chuckled. “Okay. I guess.”

  “Same here. Where have you been?”

  A tinge of guilt crept in. “Hiding out in my folks’ basement.” He nodded to the busy scene. “But it looks like you guys have been hard at it. Unlike me.”

  James let go of Josh and offered him a sympathetic half-smile. “Don’t let this fool you, kiddo,” he said. “You don’t got nothing to be ashamed of. At least you’re alive. I mean, hell, me and Sandra spent the last two days up at the old church in Newmarket. You know, the concert place. It’s not like I’ve been a model of courage. In fact, I don’t think none of us have been.”

  “I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.” Josh glimpsed at the soldiers, who were still busy at work all around them. “What’s up with the Marines?”

  “Just regular Army. They showed up at the church the same night we did.”

  “So what happened? This morning you all just decided it was time to hit the market?”

  “No. They’re planning something. We’re planning something. Something big.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  The General’s commanding voice cut in from behind them. “The survivors,” he said, and Josh turned around. The General stood with his hands still firmly planted on his hips as if they’d been welded there. “The people who want to make a difference.”

  Josh didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded.

  “Do you know what we’re up against?”

  Josh shook his head.

  “Follow me.”

  Stack led him through the storeroom. They approached a large steel door on the other side, a door Josh recognized from his teenage years, when he was a stock boy at this very supermarket. It was the entrance into the store’s large freezer. Stack stopped before it and yanked the handle. A cloud of steam arose from the seams. He signal
ed for one of the soldiers to shine a spotlight in.

  “Take a look for yourself,” he said.

  Josh peered through the opening. The mist slowly cleared, revealing the room’s contents. Metal racks lined the walls, laced with melting ice. Frozen dinners, unbaked dinner rolls, and soggy cartons of ice cream, along with other items, were stacked on the shelves. Slabs of meat dangled from hooks in the ceiling, their surfaces slick and dripping reddish-white liquid.

  Perishable goods were not what the General wished for him to see, however.

  There were bodies stacked in the rear corner of the room. They’d been thrown on top of each other in a haphazard fashion, their limbs protruding from the pile like tentacles. The spotlight passed over the mound and Josh saw their faces. Each one of them appeared drawn out and horrified, with skin as white as eggshells. In the center of the foreheads of those that weren’t completely obliterated were dripping red holes.

  Josh stumbled back as the scent of decay flooded his nostrils. He threw himself into the corner and bent over. His stomach hitched and flushed its few remaining contents in a rank stream of vomit that burned his esophagus on its way out. He closed his eyes, knowing that were he to look at the mess he had made, he would surely retch again. Disgusted voices murmured from behind him. Though he knew his actions were understandable given the circumstances, his pride took a nosedive.

  A gentle hand rubbed his back and his nausea subsided. He straightened up, using the sleeve of his parka to wipe a spot of bile from the corner of his lips. James stood to his right, looking up at him with sympathetic eyes. General Stack loomed behind the old man, staring in the other direction, apparently paying them no mind.

  “Who are they?” Josh was finally able to ask.

  James opened his mouth but the General spoke, instead. “The unfortunate ones,” he said. “And there are plenty more where they came from.”

  Mr. Conroy’s gaze dropped to his feet. The General kept on talking, pacing the entire time. “This is a war, boy, and in times like these, there comes a point where a person has to make a choice.” He swiveled, and he and Josh locked eyes. “And that choice is this: Do you want to fight, or do you want to run?”